


But Then Someday Comes...

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel 641
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Captain America: Steve Rogers Compliant, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sweethearts, Cosmic Cube, Established Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra!Stemo, LITERALLY, M/M, Reliving the Past, Secret Empire Tie-In, TRN-641, Zemo is Baron Dramatica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Baron Helmut Zemo has finally found his rightful place—as right-hand man, best friend, and lover—standing tall next to Steven Rogers, Hydra Supreme. All the years of anger, the bitter taste of failure, and the sting of humiliation at the hands of the Avengers and their Star-Spangled patriot, are now distant memories. He has his Supreme Leader's love and truly, Zemo is content.But nothing ever stays the same.Sometimes you get what you want.Sometimes you get what you need.Sometimes the Cosmic Cube gets involved and you end up doing it all over again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place after the end of the **[I Don't Know How My Heart Deceives Me Series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1036605)**. While it can be read as a standalone, I’d suggest starting there to get the full background and the Feels (tm) on Steven and Helmut.
> 
> For [the_butcher_of_clay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_butcher_of_clay/profile), who makes everything I write sound a billion times better, and for [MnM_ov_Doom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_Doom/profile), who won’t let me make myself smol and who always asks about dem bois.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Helmut Zemo says, his footfalls crisp on the tiled floor. He paces with military precision. It is one of the many habits he unwittingly absorbed from his father all those years ago: pacing while he speaks. “Your whimpers are quite unnecessary—”

As if on cue, a woman near the back lets out a low moan. Helmut stops, swivels toward her. He considers her ashen complexion. Perhaps the she was attractive, once, but her face sags with the weight of years, and her wrinkles are deepened hideously by her expression of terror.

“—and quite _annoying_.”

The woman stuffs her fist into her mouth, doing her best to stifle the noise. That will have to be sufficient, for now.

“The moment you relent and tell me what I need to know, we can _all_ get on with our mornings. After all, it is lovely out, and I, for one, would dearly like to take a walk and enjoy the day. So, I’ll ask again, _Where? Is? Herr? Müller?_ ”

The assemblage shifts awkwardly, the movements rippling through like a shiver, but they remain stubbornly silent.

If he were younger, more naïve, Zemo might believe they simply don’t have the information he seeks. He might second-guess his methodology. But he left ‘young’ behind him in the war. And naïveté? That was ground out of him long ago.

Zemo stalks up to a lesser agent, one whose name he has never bothered to learn. The man is portly, grown fat on the generosity of Hydra, and yet he betrays their ideals by covering for a traitor.

He grabs the man by the little hair still sprouting from his head, and yanks him up to his feet. The man’s face pales to an ugly shade of gray.

“Perhaps you all simply need motivation. Come.” He drags the man across the room ignoring his cries and pleas. The others care nothing for this man, or they are too cowardly to save him.

Zemo shoves the man up against the window. They are three stories above the wisteria garden where Helmut likes to stroll on fine evenings. He hates to bloody that garden. But the dictates of necessity are often harsh. “Let’s observe this _lovely_ day together.” With slow precision, he unlatches the panes and pushes them outward. “I feel strongly,” he tells the man, his voice pitched so that no one in the room will miss his words, “that you should go outside and enjoy the sunshine. Unfortunately for you, there are only two ways I see this playing out. Should you share with me the location of that slinking serpent Herr Müller, I’d be pleased to grant you leave to walk about my gardens. But, should you prove stubborn…” He shoves the man hard so that he is bent half-out the window, and he struggles frantically to catch hold of the sill. “Well, in that case, there are other ways down.”

“Pl-please don’t hurt him!”

Zemo glances over his shoulder. It’s the whimpering woman. He wonders what this man is to her. A friend? Lover? Partner? Or is her resolve simply weakened by human kindness?

“Are _you_ prepared to answer?” he asks her with slow menace.

“I…”

“Or, perhaps, you would take his place?”

Her parted lips snap closed and she folds in on herself, looking down at her clasped hands.

“See.” Zemo grins beneath his mask. “Until I have my answer, you have no friends here. No allies. And Müller? The man does not deserve your loyalty.”

The seconds tick long. Zemo grows bored. He hooks his foot behind the lesser agent’s ankle and flips it up, so that the man loses his purchase on the sill. His body topples forward. Then he’s gone.

Helmut doesn’t bother to look out the window; the thud is audible even above the cries of fear and outrage.

“Can we not speed this up?” Helmut asks. “I—”

He hears the door open and turns to find Steven Rogers, his best friend, his lover, resplendent in Hydra green.

“You’re back!” he exclaims, beyond delighted. It feels like a lifetime since last they were together.

“ _Bist du beschäftigt?_ ” Steven asks quietly, his German practically flawless. It warms Helmut’s heart to hear Steven speaking his native tongue.

Zemo glances at the quavering mass of disloyal Hydra personnel—and then back to his Captain. He smiles from a place of genuine contentment. “ _Überhaupt nicht._ ”

“Then may I have a word?”

“Of course, _mein Liebster_.”

He tosses a pointed look at the group who seem to have collectively shrunk beneath the weight of Steven’s appearance. “I’ll give you all a moment to consider your predicament. And a bit of mood music, perhaps?” Zemo walks over to the record player resting on the small, ornate side table, and gently places the needle down. Sound crackles and pops from speakers set into the walls, and the sweet strains of _Ave Maria_ filter out. “You have until the end of the song.”

♪♫ _Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild... Erhöre einer Jungfrau Flehen...Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild...♪♫_

The door has barely closed when Steven catches Helmut by his shoulder holsters, pulling him in close. Zemo begins to pull off his mask, but the Captain does not wait, and their first kiss is half-obscured by the fabric. The kiss is long, hard, and torturously slow. The material is rough between them, and though cracked and chapped, Steven’s lips feel like eider down by contrast. Zemo has never felt anything so satisfying. The time and distance have filled him with endless longing and lust.

“Mmn, I know you have to work, Helmut, but I couldn’t wait another minute to see you. I’m feeling selfish.”

“It has been almost two full weeks, my heart, by all means—be selfish,” Zemo says, tugging his mask free. Steven immediately obliges, and Helmut smiles against the Captain’s warm mouth. He whispers a pleased moan. “Besides, those fools need a minute to consider the manifold dangers of misplaced loyalty.”

Steven advances a line of kisses along Helmut’s face, turning his chin for more direct access to his neck. There he sucks and worries at the scar-toughened skin, drawing up welts. There will surely be a mottled mess, a testament to Steven’s affections hidden beneath his mask.

“Then this distraction _is_ work.”

“The best kind.”

They have spent a thousand stolen moments learning a plethora of intricate ways to enjoy each other’s mouths. Helmut licks along Steven’s full bottom lip—the touch hauntingly soft—and then nips hard, eliciting an excited groan. He seizes the opportunity to slide his tongue between Steven’s parted lips. Running his hand up Helmut’s thigh, then digging his fingers into the muscle of his taut buttock, Steven presses him hard into the wall.

“ _Steven_ …”

 _♪♫_ _Ave Maria! Unbefleckt!… Wenn wir auf diesen Fels hinsinken… Zum Schlaf, und uns dein Schutz bedeckt..._ _♪♫_

Helmut lifts his leg to wrap around Steven’s waist, drawing him in closer—closer still—until there’s nothing between them but desire. He relishes the heat of Steven’s body. This castle has been so damned _cold_ without him.

“Was your mission a success?”

“Fisk agreed to the terms, so long as the arrangement continues to benefit him.”

“Expecting more from that man would be foolhardy. And the splinter cell?”

“Neutralized.”

In these moments, Helmut is deeply conflicted. He is committed to Hydra, to building a better world. But his first and final loyalty is dedicated to his Supreme Leader. He seeks to please Steven. To love and to be loved. He will, of course, say nothing of this to Captain Rogers, whose pure devotion to Hydra ideals is unmatched.

For Helmut, it is enough that he is blessed with Steven’s favor.

“When can I get you undressed, Helm?” The quirk of a smile on Steven’s face offers prayers and promises.

Helmut frowns fiercely, fighting to keep the heat from his cheeks. That is all he needs, as if he could return to his amassed hostages blushing like a schoolboy. And yet, the lascivious words that spill from the lips of his Supreme Leader make him weak. They undermine and obliviate all other concerns.

 _♪♫_ _Ave Maria! Reine Magd! Der Erde und der Luft Dämonen… Von deines Auges Huld verjagt..._ _♪♫_

They kiss until they are left gasping for breath, their wits muddled. Helmut would have no qualms making love against this wall. Instead:

“The song is over,” Steven laments, a low growl dragged from his throat. “Get the information out of them and join me in bed.”

“I will handle this group quickly,” he promises in husky tones, and his throat grows thick with tension when Steven’s stroking fingers tighten dangerously on the back of his neck.

They linger for long moments, enjoying the closeness of each other’s presence. And then Steven rights Helmut’s mask. Reluctantly, they untangle, and when Steven steps back, the distance between them is a cruel interloper. Helmut draws long, steadying breaths. He can not return to his work in this state, so he strives to calm his body. This would be easier with an icy bath, or a truly heinous thought.

Steven smirks, seeming to sense his need, instinctively knowing what will cool his ardor.

“We’ve been invited to the Strucker wedding,” he says.

Helmut cocks his head. “Have we now?”

“If you’d like to watch a man stare at _his sister_ instead of his bride…”

That does the trick.

* * *

It’s no surprise to Helmut when he finds the sheep have made no move to escape in his absence. Indeed, they’ve not moved at all. “Do you know,” Zemo asks quietly, “how much that perfect man means to me? I could, at this very moment, be enjoying his company, and yet, I am here instead with cowards and traitors-by-proxy. I grow tired of this charade.”

They stare at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

He smirks privately, watching the way they cling to each other. “Shall we end this?” He draws a Luger, feels the weight of it in his hand. “Where!” He places a shot between the eyes of a young man with freckles. “Is!” One in the eye of a middle-aged woman. “Müller! _”_ And finally, one through the temple of a man cowering like a dog.

“Now! _Who is ready to talk…?_ ”

* * *

“Müller is in New Mexico,” Zemo says as he catches up to Steven in the hall. He holsters his gun. Two servants bow to him, waiting for instruction, with cleaning supplies already in hand. “Send the survivors away,” he tells them. “And do be sure to clean thoroughly, we don’t want a repeat of the incident with those S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, I’d hate to have to replace the flooring. Again.”

“ _Jawohl!_ ” they say in unison.

Steven laughs. “You certainly made a mess. You’re covered in blood,” he says.

“A shower then,” Helmut replies jovially. “Join me?”

At that moment, life is perfect, and Helmut, happy. He’d spent most of his childhood in a fog of rebellion and rage at his abusive father, and then his adult life attempting to avenge the bastard. Contentment, the Baron believed, would breed laziness within him.

And he knows himself to be meant for great things.

Yet, walking side-by-side with Steven, he feels nothing but contentment, and he is not diminished by it.

Steven whispers low, dark promises of pleasure as they walk. Helmut smiles, feeling his body grow hot in response.

And then they turn the corner—

Helmut’s heart is suddenly frozen, encased in ice, because standing at the end of the hallway is a _creature_ of pure chaos with the mind of a child. She is the Cosmic Cube turned sentient. _Kobik_.

They have traded blows before.

Pleasant Hill.

The North Pole.

D.C.

Steven has stopped, his body tense as he assesses the situation. They both know the danger she poses, and it is evident from her demeanor that she is...displeased.

Her small face is contorted in anger, her eyes flash. She’s sucked her bottom lip in, her cheeks puffed out.

Helmut has dealt with children’s tantrums before, a lifetime ago, but _this_ is far more significant.

The girl hovers above the ground, arms outstretched, glowing a shifting white and blue. The air crackles with reality-bending power. She glares with white-blank eyes.

Helmut puts out a hand to hold back his Captain, and draws his sword.

“You don’t play _nice_!” she cries, and with a wave of her hand, his sword—an heirloom, with the Zemo family crest on the hilt, the very same one he received from Heinrich when he was fifteen years old—is replaced by a balloon-facsimile which promptly pops in his grip. Fragments of silvery rubber flutter to the floor at his feet.

“ _You horrid creature!_ ” Cold fury wells in him, a fountain of anger and frustration at what he’s lost—what has been stolen from him, and from Steven. Their victory in WWII, his memories of their childhood together—wiped away by this same cosmic power.

“Helmut,” Steven says with quiet authority. He places a firm, gloved hand on Zemo’s shoulder. “I need you to stand down.”

“But—!”

“You know how dangerous she can be. Please. Let me talk to her.”

Everything in him screams _no!_ But Steven’s voice brooks no refusal and he steps around Helmut. He itches to draw his guns, but it would be futile, of course. She could stop the bullets with a flick of her eyes, but the thought of unloading both magazines at her small body is delightfully satisfying.

“Kobik,” Steven says in his calmest voice. He raises both hands in a show of peace as he takes a step toward her.

“No! You were s’posed to stay in prison.”

“That _place_ ,” he says quietly, “was torture. You’re a _good girl_. I know you don’t want anyone to hurt. And I was _hurting_ there.”

“But _you_ hurt people,” she argues hotly, as Steven takes another step toward her. “And you’re still hurting people. You’re _bad_ and all my friends are worried ’cause you’re out of prison and you did those mean things in Madripoor.”

Helmut glances at Steven and then back at the girl.

“You hurt _Bucky-Buckaroo_!”

“He attacked me,” Steven explains. “I had to defend myself.”

Pleasure fills in the gaps around his apprehension and Zemo beams with smug pride. “It is a shame he did not _end_ the cur’s life.”

Kobik glows brighter and the hallway begins to quiver in a haze of heat.

“ _Helmut_ ,” Steven hisses.

“He makes you _worse_ ,” she says to Helmut, tiny fists balling and unballing. “You could be a good guy. You could be a _hero_ . But you’re _never_ gonna be good with”—she flings a finger out at Steven—“ _him._ ”

_How dare she—!_

Helmut snarls at the girl.

“You’ve gotta go back,” she tells Steven.

The Captain straightens. “Kobik, I will not return to the Shadow Pillar.”

“I’m not talkin’ about the Shadow Pillar, dummy!” She flexes her fingers and the energy visibly emanating from her then shivers and waves. “You’ve gotta go _home_.”

The effect is so instantaneous, Helmut cannot process for almost three full beats.

There was a bright flash.

The light is now dimming.

And Steven is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr!](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

_“No…”_

The word is trapped, tangled in Helmut’s mask, choking him.

His eyes lie, they must! Steven is just...

She— she couldn’t have...

But she _has_.

His heart feels as though it has given one final convulsive squeeze—forcing all the blood out, rushing through his arteries, carried to every extremity—and then stopped dead.

She’s sent Steven away.

Where?

_‘Home?!’_

But he _is_ home. Castle Zemo is his _home_. His home is by Zemo's side!

“No!” The word finally breaks loose and he shouts it, trembling with rage.

He’s not good with children. He’s said this before. Not...good…

Maybe he was once, years ago, with his adopted _Kinder_ , but that was...

And the False Captain ruined all that, didn’t he? He took them all away.

So _this_ is his truth now: _Helmut Zemo is_ not _good with children._

And he desperately wishes he had not grown complacent where this little girl is concerned, that he had continued to encourage Fixer to build weapons and traps to shatter or contain the Cosmic Cube. But his priorities shifted when Steven…

_Steven is gone._

She sent him away.

He charges at the child, drawing both guns and aiming down at her. “Bring him back to me, _now_!”

“Stop,” Kobik says, freezing him in place with her power, and turning his pistols to vapor with a wave of her hand. She descends slowly until her feet finally touch the ground. The world has stopped shaking, the energy in the air dissipates gradually. She could fool them all with her innocent face and her concerned eyes. He struggles against the hold she has on him. “Don’t yell at me.”

“Or what, _Kind_? You’ll send me away, too? Do it! Send me straight to wherever you’ve exiled Steven!”

She frowns deeply. “Can’t.”

“Cannot? Or _will not_?”

“I fixed it. I’m not gonna ‘un’fix it.”

Rage simmers inside him and he draws a breath, taking a moment to focus and considers his options. He doesn’t have the best track record against this girl and her unspeakable power. The one time he bested her, he was flanked by his Thunderbolts and supported by Fixer’s technology.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Baron,” she says. “You could be _so good_ . I know you could. If you and _Stevie_ would be friends—!”

Her False Captain, of course.

Zemo practically snarls. “I attempted once to live that life; I offered a truce to your ‘Stevie’ many years ago, during that ridiculous ‘Civil War.’ He wanted no part of my peace or my good will. My loyalties now lie with the Supreme Leader. And I demand”—her frown deepens dangerously at his words and it takes every bit of Helmut’s control to force the next word past his lips—“ _ask_ , that you bring him back or, failing that, send me to him.”

“You won’t like it over there,” she says. “’Cause you don’t remember everything right now and if you go there, you’re gonna remember.”

“I _want_ to remember! I want to remember _everything_ you and your ilk wrested from me.”

Kobik rolls her eyes. The look on her face says he doesn’t know what he’s getting into, but she’s a child, an artificial one, at that, and what could she possibly know of a love like this?

“There might be _one way_ ,” she says, seeming uncertain for the first time, “but I don’t know if you’ll like it either.”

“ _As long as I am by his side_ ,” Zemo hisses, “none of the rest matters. We shall persevere and, together, overcome any obstacle you leave in our path.”

She hums to herself, very clearly not listening to him. If he’d found her infuriating _before_ …!

“I...guess I could… But you’ve gotta know something. _I_ can’t just _change_ anything that happened over there and make it better or happier ’cause Buckity-Buck says I’ve gotta stop playin’ with people’s realities. ’Cept I had to fix this last accident I made. The Bad Captain.”

“That _‘accident’_ is the greatest man I’ve ever known.”

“Well, he was s’posed to stay in prison!”

Helmut raises his hands slowly, realizing he can move once more. “Just… do it. Just send me to him. I need no alterations to our history, as long as I have Steven.”

With another long sigh, Kobik finally says, a touch sadly, “I’ve seen your heart, remember? In Pleasant Hill. We were friends. An’ I saw _all_ your potential. You really _could_ be good like Stevie.”

The Baron’s fists clench involuntarily. “There it is again. Your arbitrary ‘good.’ As if your standards are the only ones that matter. Was it _good_ when you altered my memories? Transformed me into someone else? Cease your prevarications and send me to him, _now_.”

She sucks in her bottom lip.

“You’re not the only one with the power to move between realities, Little Cube,” he tells her. “But if you refuse me, if you force me to resort to other means of reaching him, then I will make certain to _repay you_ and _your precious Winter Soldier_ for keeping me from Steven a second longer than necessary.”

With an annoyed huff, Kobik points toward him and everything glows a blinding bright white. He raises a gloved hand to his eyes, blocking out the intense light, holding it back.

“’Member, Helmy: _Be. Nice_.”

In the blink of an eye, everything shifts.

He is no longer in the corridor.

He stands beside a white Mercedes-Benz, gazing up at a towering stone structure. The world is wide, bright, overly large, making him feel smaller by contrast. He inhales the sweetly scented air, and his tensions ease as he’s overcome with a sense of familiarity.

Memories slide out of his head, like sand spilling from a cracked hourglass.

_His father’s death…_

_His hatred of the False Captain…_

_His Masters of Evil…_

_Heike..._

_His adopted children…_

_His Thunderbolts…_

_The Moonstones…_

_Besting the Winter Soldier…_

_The Hydra Queen…_

_Barton…_

_Steven’s friendship…_

_Steven’s love…_

_Steven’s touch…_

For a moment, he thinks that he will hold onto a single grain of sand, pocket it. But the sky is so blue, and it fills the spaces where those memories used to be. Without an ounce of regret, Helmut lets the last grain fall away, so content is he in this moment.

“Master Zemo?” his driver asks. “Shall I escort you to meet with the Headmaster?”

“No,” Helmut says with a bored little sigh. “No. Deliver my bags to the dormitory. In the meantime, I think I would like to explore.”

* * *

**1935 - THE KEEP**

Helmut has only been here two hours, and already he is bored.

He’d wished to stay with Father, to continue his studies at home, learning at the side of the Baron. Truly, there is so much more to be learned in the company of the greatest scientist in the world than anywhere else on earth.

This school—these boys—they are a waste of his time.

But Father insisted Helmut attend, insisted that he impress the instructors, insisted that he make the Zemo name sing out in the stone halls of the Keep.

And Helmut so wants to impress the Baron.

So, he will endure the boredom.

He has been wandering the grounds freely, playing a little game of enemies and spies. To this end, he’s stalked the throngs and knots of students, out of sight, but near enough to hear their mundane conversations. It will be advantageous to know more about them before he chooses his friends from amongst their ranks.

For a while, Helmut sits outside the open windows of a classroom, listening to the lesson. He learns two things almost immediately. First, given the painfully wrong answers they deliver in response to the simplest of questions, there are a great number of fools here. If these students represent the future of Hydra, then it is a good thing they will have Zemo to lead them.

Second, he identifies the teacher’s pet.

 _Steven_.

The lad’s American accent marks him out from the rest and Helmut decides that this is not the sort of boy he wishes for a friend.

When he grows bored of spying, he wanders down to the stables. If there will be but one pleasure for him in this horrid place, it is sure to be riding. A shame he has had to leave Gunnar, but as he walks into the stables and breathes in the sweet scent of hay and rich leather, he delights in the familiarity. There are an array of handsome horses in the stalls. Doubtless, one of them will be worthy of him.

Helmut considers each horse in turn, cataloging their strengths and weaknesses. He tells each what he thinks of them, in soothing tones, stroking the noses of the ones that will let him, and keeping respectful distance from the others. Near the end of the stables, he finds a roan Arabian with very expressive eyes and he lingers by her stall. She is curious and after a moment, comes over to the door.

"I’ve no carrots for you," he laments. "But you have fine confirmation. Not nearly as good as Gunnar, but I will consider you when I’m ready to ride."

Oh, how he misses Gunnar. He is a pure black Hanoverian, except for one white foot in the front, which looks as if he has stepped in paint. Father bought him for Helmut’s tenth birthday. He is a horse of the finest quality, and Helmut misses him dearly. Perhaps when he gets top marks, and impresses all the instructors, the Baron will have Gunnar sent over.

The horse’s ears perk and Helmut hears someone coming. He has no wish to interact with anyone just yet, and decides he will simply hide out of sight. However, he’s not one to cower in the hay—will not take the chance that his clothes might carry the lingering smell of equine urine. So, he climbs up onto the door of the roan’s stall, grabs hold of a post, and hauls himself up into the rafters where he can sit and wait and watch.

The young man that enters the stables is too tall and gaunt. He looks around, calls out, “Anyone here?”

His accent gives him away. Doubtless, this is Steven—the teacher’s pet.

The boy waits another few seconds for a response, receives none, and deciding he is alone, walks over to sit on a bale near the open hayloft.

Curious.

Helmut creeps closer, stealthy along the beams, arms spread wide for balance.

The boy has a book in his hand—no, a sketchpad. He pulls a pencil from behind his ear and sets graphite to paper. He sketches in short lines, gradually darkening the picture as he goes. The image quickly takes shape as a woman with a top knot and wide expressive eyes. Helmut wonders who she is and what her story might be.

Helmut finds himself entranced by the movement of Steven’s large hand. It’s quite a personal thing, watching someone draw—especially someone who looks so earnest. Will he shade in the woman’s face? Or leave it as a mere outline?

An outline, it seems, but not at all by choice, because at that moment three students enter the stables, and they do not look to be interested in riding. They make straight for Steven, grunting their bullish taunts, as if they think themselves witty. Steven stands. He attempts to deflate the situation, but they’ve come looking for a fight and nothing he says stop the blows that come.

These _Feiglinge_ do not fight with honor—three large brutes against this lone frail boy? Unacceptable! Besides, Helmut enjoys a good fight, has been training with Adalard since he was old enough to grip a wooden sword. He’s proficient in several forms of armed and unarmed combat.

He jumps from the rafters, startling all in the group.

The bullies do not present much of a challenge. They are slow and thuggish, and put power behind their fists without thinking much about trajectory. He takes each of them out with no more damage to himself than busted and bruised knuckles and he has certainly fared better than the artist, who has a swollen eye and a bloody nose.

The boy put up one helluva fight, however, especially for someone so gangly.

Helmut introduces himself with flair, proud to be a savior on day one.

“You are Steven,” he says decisively, with a beaming smile.

While he’d already determined they weren’t to be friends, it seems this boy is in need of someone to watch out for him. And perhaps Helmut could benefit from the companionship of a teacher’s pet. He admires the tenacity Steven showed in the fight, even if the other is a dreadful fighter.

“We should get you cleaned up.”

“Who...are you?”

“Did that blow to the head rattle your brains? I told you, already, I am Helmut Zemo, heir to the Barony of Zeulniz and your new best friend.”

Steven stares at him for a long while, obviously in shock at the generosity of the proclamation.

Then he says, “Thanks, but no.” And he starts to walk away.

The sheer affrontery shocks Helmut enough that it takes him several seconds to process, but once he has, a firm line of displeasure forms across his brow.

No?

_No?_

No one says ‘no’ to the future Thirteenth Baron of Zeulniz!

Helmut storms after Steven, working double-time to keep up. For someone so ungainly, his stride is incredibly long.

“You will wait!” Helmut shouts.

Steven casts a glance over his shoulder, his face set hard. “Thank you... for the assist—I didn’t need it—and I... don’t need a best friend.”

Even so, he is slowing down. Eventually, Steven stops in the middle of the path, his shoulders heaving, and Helmut is able to catch up.

“If we are to be chums, you should know, I don’t like to be ignored.” This is an understatement, but Steven is American, and therefore boorish and he must learn how these things work. They have no Barons in America, he’s heard. It will take time to properly train Steven in the ways of friendship. “And do not leave me behind. My legs are not as long as… are you alright?”

Steven is wheezing quite heavily.

“F-fine,” he says, though he is obviously not well at all.

“You’re asthmatic?” Helmut guesses.

Steven nods and takes himself over to the shade of a tree. “Just...need...a minute…”

The fight with those idiots and his flight from Helmut must have triggered an attack.

Stupid boy. This is what happens when one runs away from a Zemo! But Helmut is concerned by Steven’s obvious distress and so he does the only thing he knows to do—he puts his hand on Steven’s back and rubs in slow circles. It’s something his mother did for him when he was young and had coughing fits. Helmut has no idea if it will help with asthma.

Steven startles at the touch. “What...are you...doing?” he asks.

“Helping,” Helmut tells him, brusquely. “Do not expect it all the time, though.” He considers for a moment. “I’ll want you to help me, as well, sometimes. Not with asthma. I do not have it, of course. I’m quite healthy. But there will be other ways you can assist me.”

“I told you…” Steven draws in a long, slow breath, holds it as best he can, and lets it out. He repeats the process several times and Helmut is proud that his soothing seems to be working. “I don’t need... you, as a friend.”

“Hm,” Helmut says, withdrawing his hand. “You’re quite serious?”

“Quite.”

This has now become a matter of pride, and a Zemo is nothing if not proud. Helmut stands quietly and considers his options.

“Do you have dogs, Steven?” He questions, settling on a stratagem.

Steven glances up at him out of his swollen eye. “What?”

“At home, with your mother and your father, do you have dogs?”

“First, _this_ is my only home. Second, no, I don’t have dogs.”

So he’s an American _and_ an orphan? Well, that certainly is unfortunate, and all the more reason he’ll need a friend like Helmut.

“I have four dogs,” Helmut explains grandly.

“Probably German shepards, right?”

“Dachshunds,” Helmut continues conversationally. “My very favorite is Schotzie, but she’s quite young and stubborn.”

“I don’t...know that breed.”

“They are very long and low-slung, quite humorous to look at, but they are fierce hunters, bred to fight badgers. Perhaps if you visit my castle on holiday, you can meet them.”

There. That ought to impress the young man! Surely, none of these other louts have castles of their own.

He smirks down at Steven, but the boy only continues to stare back at him.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he says again. “If your breathing has returned to normal?”

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

“I am not,” Helmut agrees. “Besides, haven’t you been tasked with showing the new students around the grounds? And I am new!”

“How do you—?”

“I know a great many things, Steven,” he says. “Come. I want to know all the best spots. Do not hold anything back. After all, as friends, we will share everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further Zemo Reading:
> 
>   * Need the background for Steven and Helmut's childhood? _Captain America: Steve Rogers_ by Nick Spencer is awesome, check it out.
>   * Never heard the story of Helmut's twenty-five children? Read _Captain America: Fighting Chance_ by Mark Gruenwald.
>   * And yes, in 616 he did have a dog named Schotzie (no idea why they spelled it like that...) which you can read more about in _Medusa Effect_ by Roy Thomas.
> 

> 
> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr!](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

Steven glowers as the interloper pulls books off the shelf, dropping them in a haphazard pile on the floor.

 _His_ books.

From _his_ shelf.

On _his_ floor.

This has been Steven’s room, and only his room, for the last nine years.

Other boys in the Keep may share rooms, but, from the beginning, Steven has been different. He is an outcast and it serves him, if only that it means _no one can touch his stuff!_

Until today.

Until this brash, arrogant son-of-a-Baron came swooping (literally) into his life and declared that they would be friends. The boy went straight to Fenhoff and demanded to room with Steven. And then he expected Steven to be _happy_ about it!

“I have those how I want them,” Steven says for the third time. “Stop messing it up!”

“They should be alphabetical, _Dummerchen_. By author, if we’re being technical.”

“They’re in order by subject.”

“ _What_ subject?” Helmut huffs a laugh. “All I see is a mess of books.”

“Because you pulled them off my shelf!”

Alright. That’s enough, dammit. He’s sore from the fight, emotionally and physically, and he doesn’t need this.

He slides off his bed—the lower bunk, which the asshole actually tried to claim when he walked in the room!—and does his best to loom over the other boy. _Nine years_ . Steven has been here _nine years_. And now Helmut Zemo wants to take his bed. And his shelves. And the whole room from the look of it.

“Oh!” Helmut exclaims and stands, kicking over one of the piles of books in his haste to get to his luggage. “I forgot…”

The case bursts open when he pops the latches, everything jammed inside desperate to get out. Meticulously, he folds and sets aside his clothing, displaying far more fastidiousness than he did with the books.

“Here!” he cries when he finds what he’s looking for. It’s a framed photograph. “I’m going to put this on the shelf.”

“You are exhausting,” Steven mumbles, walking over to his poor, abused books and checking his favorites for damage.

Zemo nearly bowls him over when he rushes back to the shelf and sets the photo in a place of honor.

The frame is garishly gold. Not just plating, knowing what little he already does of Zemo. Steven should bite it, just to confirm. The thought makes his lips twitch into a private smirk. He wonders what the little shit would think if he found teeth marks on the frame.

“This is the twelfth Baron of Zeulniz, Heinrich Zemo, my father, and my mother, Hilda, the Baroness, and me, of course, front and center, and this is my horse, Gunnar. When you come on holiday, we’ll go for a ride. I’ve a fine mare named Camellia that is quite gentle, you could probably stay on her back. She rarely has moods, unlike her sister, Ivy, who has a nasty temperament.”

“So...I can’t ride Gunnar?” Steven asks and it’s worth it for the scandalized look on Helmut’s face. His eyes go wide in his head, pale blue saucers.

“ _No one_ rides Gunnar,” he says, “Except for me. While I am away, his trainer, Maria can only lunge him to keep him exercised. I’ve warned her not to get too close!”

It takes everything in Steven’s power not to burst out laughing. He hopes that Maria is curled up with Gunnar at this very moment, reading _Black Beauty_ aloud, and forming an unbreakable bond with Zemo’s prized horse.

Because of the effort to keep his face straight, Steven looks overly serious as he says, “Why is your father wearing that mask?”

Helmut practically beams. “He’s too famous, you see, and he must hide his identity from our enemies.”

“Yeah, OK,” Steven says. “He’s completely inconspicuous.”

Helmut either doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm or chooses to ignore it. “You’ll meet him on holiday. Do not worry, I’ll write to him beforehand to let him know you’re American.”

“Like a warning?” Steven asks, replacing his books under Zemo’s scrutinizing look.

“Not a warning, only… You’re unfamiliar with our ways.”

“I know other Germans.”

“The ways of the _Barony_.”

Steven takes a deep, controlling breath, something Whitehall taught him to do when the rage simmered so deep inside that his blood seemed to boil with it. “Whatever you say, _Baron-chen_.”

Helmut bristles instantly. “Firstly, do not call me that! Secondly, your pronunciation is deplorable. _Barönchen_.”

“Gotcha. _Barönchen._ Barönchen Helmut Zemo.”

“ _You_ are uncouth.”

“So I’ve been told,” Steven says. It’s certainly not the first time one of the assholes here has called him ‘uncouth.’ Somehow, it sounds even more arrogant coming from Zemo.

“Perhaps you should work on that trait if you know it to be a problem.”

“I’ll get right on that. Are you gonna help me clean up?”

Zemo makes a small noncommittal noise as he straightens the picture frame.

“It is good you speak at least a little German, if not with a preposterously American accent.” Helmut cringes dramatically for effect. “What else can you say?”

“Not much,” Steven admits, and it’s true. His written German is fairly good, but spoken German is… almost non-existent. Abandoning his books which Helmut really _should_ pick up, and walking toward the window, Steven ‘accidentally’ kicks Helmut’s clothes over and is disappointed the boy doesn’t seem to notice.

“If you’re to be my friend, Rogers, you will need to learn German.”

And before he can even reply that he’d be happy _not_ to be the boy’s friend, Helmut has started up a whirlwind conversation—one-sided—lobbing rapid-fire German at Steven.

 _This?_ This Steven can handle, because except for the occasional _der_ and _mein_ and _ist_ , he understands so little spoken German that he can easily tune it out. It soon becomes a steady background noise.

The _problem_ arises when he has to speak to Helmut—in English, of course—and the tiny tyrant acts as if he hasn’t spoken at all.

“Pick up my books and put them back like I had them,” Steven says after half an hour has gone by and Helmut has not returned to the pile of books he left in the floor.

Helmut, who has been hanging up his clothing, looks at Steven, cocks his head like a little bird, and then smirks. “ _Ich verstehe nicht._ ” **[1]**

“I don’t know what you’re saying and I don’t care what you’re saying, but I know you understand me, so put the books back.”

“ _I_ _ch verstehe nicht._ ”

“Oh,” Steven says, “I get it. You’re saying ‘I’m a great big asshole.’ Then yep, you—” He points at Helmut. “You ‘ich verstehe nicht.’”

Zemo rolls his eyes dramatically and says, in English (thank God), “How old are you, Steven?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’m simply curious. How old are you?” Helmut repeats.

“Fifteen in July.”

“Hmm,” he says. “So actually fourteen.”

“Why? How old are _you_?”

“Guess!” he demands with a grin.

“Well, you act like you’re five, and you’re incredibly short—”

“I’m not _that_ short,” Helmut denies with a huff.

“Very short,” Steven says. “I’m always worried about stepping on you.”

“I’d be more concerned about tripping on your own ungainly legs.” Zemo actually turns his nose up before continuing. “And I am thirteen. I will be fourteen on Christmas Eve and you should write that in your diary so you do not forget it.”

“You really think I’ll forget Christmas Eve?”

“I suppose not, but it is not _only_ Christmas Eve, it is also my birthday.”

  
* * *

Despite the sometimes grueling trials the Keep has thrown at him over the years, the next two weeks prove to be the greatest test of his patience.

 _Helmut Zemo_ is the greatest test of his patience.

The damn boy is so loud.

Everything he does is loud. He talks loudly, he laughs loudly, he snores loudly. God, how he snores. He snores so bad that it wakes Steven up and sometimes he will climb the ladder to the top bunk and hold a pillow over Helmut’s face until he wakes up flailing.

And then there’s the arrogance.

Helmut doesn’t so much follow Steven everywhere as demand that Steven follow _him_. Each day it seems to get worse. Even if they are going to the same place—like today, Social Studies—Helmut charges in front of him, so that he can lead. Steven can (and does) outpace him, however, which sends the tiny prince into a fury and leads to them both walking faster until they end up in a sprint, which then gives Helmut the advantage. And he knows it.

Even though Steven makes it to the door before Zemo, he’s winded and has to wait until he’s caught his breath before he can go inside. When he looks through the open doorway, he sees that Helmut has stolen his seat.

Like. He steals. Everything.

So Steven waits until the first bell rings and then he takes a seat as far from Helmut as possible, even though it means sitting next to Matthew, who he despises. Right now, he doesn’t know which of them he dislikes more, but the absolutely scandalized look on Helmut Zemo’s face make it easier to deal with Matthew’s spitballs and hateful whispers.

“Why didn’t you sit with me?” Helmut demands, storming up to Steven in a huff when class is over. “We are best friends and we sit together.”

“One, we’re _not_ best friends, Helmut,” Steven says as he walks toward the cafeteria, Helmut making a show of walking just a bit faster. “We’re not going to _be_ best friends. Two”—he grins because he’s struck Helmut dumb—“you took my seat, so I had to find somewhere else to sit.”

“There was an open spot next to me,” Helmut grumbles.

Steven says nothing, but picks up the pace, and when Helmut tries to charge into the lead once more, he grabs the idiot by the shoulder and hauls him back.

“Quit it.”

“Quit _what_?”

“Just walk next to me like a normal person.”

“ _I_ am not a ‘normal person’,” Zemo says proudly. “I am the future Baron—”

“—of Blow It Out Your Ass. Yeah, I know. You’ve only said a hundred times. Listen, do you know _why_ we aren’t best friends?”

“Because you are stubborn and foolish?”

“Because _you_ are demanding and presumptuous and because you didn’t _ask_ , you just _decided_. I don’t like being told what to do.”

Steven grabs his meal tray and rolled silverware and gets into line with the rest of the boys.

Zemo harrumphs and blows a hot breath through his nose. “And _if_ I had asked?”

“I probably still would have said ‘no,’ because I didn’t know you and I don’t have a lot of reason to trust you.”

“But I came to your aid!”

“Sure, but then you bullied your way into everything, my room, my classes. I don’t like bullies, Helmut.”

“I—”

“Ask.”

“What?”

“You want to be friends? _Ask_.”

Helmut turns away, but Steven can see the tell-tale pink of a flush at the tips of his ears. For a long time he concentrates on his tray and does not say anything. It’s probably the first time in his life anyone has ever denied him anything.

They are all the way at the end of the line when Helmut, proud as ever, turns to Steven and says. “I think you should consider being my friend, Steven Rogers.”

Steven’s lips quirk, and he nods. “Sure. I’ll consider it.”

* * *

Turns out there are benefits to Helmut’s presence.

For one thing, everyone heard about the fight in the stables and now, no one bothers the Barönchen Zemo. That means, with Helmut latched onto his side, Steven is getting less shit than normal. There’s still some. The random shoulder-checking, a foot extended to trip him, cruel muttering just loud enough for him to hear, but at least he hasn’t been cornered in a bathroom and beaten so bad he can hardly stand.

He also has a readymade partner for projects, though he’s always preferred working alone.

But Professor Hale insisted.

So, he and Helmut are researching the history of Hydra in the Orient. Steven finds the subject quite interesting and loses himself to hours in the library. Of course, Helmut follows along like his shadow and complains endlessly. He feels they should have chosen the underground Prussian movement instead.

At the moment, Helmut is flopped forward against the table, his arms spread wide, forehead against the hardwood. He knocks his knuckles on the base of the green-shaded lamp.

“ _Mir ist so langweilig._ ” [2]

“Words, words, words,” Steven replies, still pointedly refusing to comprehend Helmut’s spoken German. He has, however, been doing extra credit work for Fenhoff that involves...some...written German. Alright, a significant amount.

If Helmut knew, he’d probably start passing Steven notes in class. He can only imagine.

_  
Liebster Steven, _

_Ich bin sowohl sehr klein als auch sehr nervtötend._

_Mit freundlichen Grüßen,_

_Barönchen Helmut Zemo_ [3]

  
“ _Mir... ist... so... langweilig..._ ” Helmut repeats very slowly and far too loud. The librarian appears from nowhere, a mean-eyed woman with a permanent scowl. She shushes him and Steven makes an apologetic face, knowing Helmut will not.

“Could you be quiet for once?” Steven hisses. “And sit up, I need help finding more about Yuan.”

Helmut waves a hand without looking up. “Ming Dynasty or post-Ming Dynasty? He was quite a different man after aiding the Manchus.” At Steven’s inquisitive noise, Helmut glances up. “You have to choose one. Yuan was far more idealistic before he turned traitor, even if his actions involuntarily led to the permeation of Hydra in Shaanxi.”

“How do you…?”

“I’m a genius, Steven. You wanted to do this ridiculous project, so I’ve been studying during mathematics. My maths are already much more advanced than what Alexander is teaching. But now you’re researching things I’ve already covered and it is boring. Let’s go down to the lake or wander in the forest.”

Steven looks at the books laid out in front of him and then back at Helmut’s upturned lips and raised eyebrow. Going outside does sound fun, and if Helmut has already done the work…

“You’re a bad influence.”

“I am _the best_ influence,” the boy argues smugly.

Steven grins despite himself.

So this is what it’s like to have a friend.

And Steven decides he’s fine with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations by my German goddess **[Staubengel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staubengel/profile)** :
> 
> [1] I do not understand.  
> [2] I am so bored.  
> [3] Dearest Steven, I am very small as well as very pesky. With best wishes, Barönchen Helmut Zemo
> 
> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr!](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**SPRING 1936 - THE KEEP**

Zemo stands on the landing, his men gathered in a knot around him. The afternoon sun burns out of the sky, painting the walls in rich smears of golden light. The halls are quiet, this wing of the school now devoid of students and teachers alike.

Helmut glares up at the three boys under his command and crosses his arms pensively. There is no room for doubt. Each of them was chosen for their unique strengths, but more so the weaknesses that make them easily manipulated. Each boy has something to lose, something to gain, and a deep-seated need for approval and direction. As the future Baron Zemo, Helmut is the ideal person to fulfill those needs.

“You’re on lookout,” Zemo reminds Jacob, the beefy First Year, who responds with a short, firm nod. “Should a teacher happen upon you, you’ll say…?”

“That I’ve got questions about the assignment.”

Zemo favors him with a small smile.

“Quinton,” Helmut begins, turning to the taller boy standing with his back to the window. “You--”

Jacob cuts in. “But, what if it’s Whitehall, Boss? I already talked to him this mornin’ about my report.”

Helmut shakes his head. “Then you play the _Dummkopf_ that you are and tell him you’ve forgotten his instructions. You ask him to explain it all. Again. You look for paper and a pencil to make notes. You _stall_.”

Jacob seems to consider this for a long moment, his meaty features folding up in a strained look of concentration. After some time, he decides this is a sound plan, and lets the insult pass. Or, perhaps he does not realize he’s been insulted. Zemo selected him precisely for his lack of brains. Thee boy is large and slow and will doubtless have no trouble holding a teacher in a pattern of frustrating conversation, not because of any quick-witted replies, but with an unremitting flood of imbecilic questions.

“This must go off without a hitch,” Helmut says tightly. “If any of you are caught, then I will disavow you. Understand this. And amongst us, you know who the teachers are likely to believe.”

Quinton shifts uncomfortably to his right and he looks at his lockpicking tools with a measure of annoyance.

“Do you have something to say?”

“No, Boss,” he denies.

“Right. I thought not.” Helmut stands just a little taller. “Your job?”

“Open the English room and the Maths room, subtle-like.”

“And Eric?”

“Plant the evidence.” Eric is the oldest of the three as well as the one with the most to lose. Helmut flashes him a smile. “Lock the doors back. Head down to Fenhoff’s, smash the glass, rifle through the desk, make sure the grade book is open to _that page_. Want me to mark up his grades? It’s pretty easy to change an A to a B.”

“Do _not_ get creative,” Helmut snaps. “I have thought this plan through from every conceivable angle and should you deviate, it will muddy the waters.”

This is an excellent time to drive home a point. Helmut lifts his chin and raises an eyebrow. He stares each boy in the eye, his expression severe. “Each of you was chosen for your unique abilities.” Plus, their desperation. “And you are the righters of wrongs, and my Masters of...” Helmut frowns, trying to decide on a name. “Hydra.” It isn’t quite right. He will have to work on it. “Now as you know, our fellow student, Steven Rogers, has been wronged. Grievously.”

They nod together, looking nowhere but at Zemo. “The three of you”—he grinds out the words between his teeth—“were among those wronging him before I arrived last year. But you are redeeming yourselves by your actions now. _Matthew Clyde_ , however, is beyond redemption. What you do today, you do in service of the greater good.”

“If we do this, then you’ll…?” Jacob says slowly, but his words get tangled up. To ask means to admit to the others what Zemo has on him. The other two boys shift uncomfortably, curious, but knowing that Zemo holds the keys to their futures as well. Wisely, they hold their tongues.

“Do this for me and I shall forget what I saw, Jacob.”

He nods, but he does not relax.

“The same goes for all of you.”

* * *

**FOUR MONTHS AGO**

Zemo charges at the wall. Putting all his momentum behind the leap, he springs forward and grabs the rope. Beside him, two other classmates do the same, though their long-legged jumps grant them a small advantage. No matter! He will not let his height slow him down. He pulls himself, hand over hand, the muscles in his arms burning. _Today_! Today he will come out on top and force those around him to respect his superior physicality.

As he crests the wall, he assesses the tank of water below. It is his least favorite part of the course—leaping blindly into this water.

Once, in his younger days he was out on a ride with Gunnar. He stopped at a pond on the estate and climbed a tree with the intent of diving in from a high branch. It was something he had done a million times before. Childish, really. It only meant his riding clothes would get soaked and his trainer, Maria, would scold him. But he enjoyed climbing far out on the limb and leaping blindly. Enjoyed the halting tug in the pit of his stomach as his body hung in midair, knowing the water below would engulf him.

Perhaps if he’d achieved the necessary distance, all would have been as it ever was.

Instead, as he positioned himself to spring from the branch, the old limb cracked under his weight, sending his jump far off course. He hit in the shallows, landing hard on a gnarled root, and felt the exact moment the bones in his foot shattered.

As Helmut cried out in pain, Gunnar’s head shot up from where he was drinking at the edge of the water. He moved quickly to inspect Helmut, sniffing him and nudging him hard. Helmut choked down angry, pained tears. _Do not cry!_ he thought, even as they leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Gunnar nudged him again, and Helmut, wet and humiliated and in tremendous pain, reached for the horse and grabbed hold of the stirrup, hoisting himself up.

He did not let a broken foot stop him then and he will not let this tank of water stop him now.

Helmut leaps.

* * *

Helmut absolutely beams with pride as he crosses the finish line, damp and exhausted, but riding high on his success. The instructor confirms what he already knew—he’s broken his personal record. He immediately looks around for Steven, hoping to catch his friend’s eye and see the approval shining on the boy’s face. After all, won’t he be proud of Helmut’s accomplishments?

Raking back wet hair, the future Baron spots Steven standing near a rack of weights.

But he is not smiling at Helmut.

He is not even _looking_ at Helmut!

Instead, Steven—his very best friend—is deep in conversation with _Matthew Clyde_ of all people. Matthew, who, before Helmut’s arrival at the Keep, picked on Steven mercilessly. Matthew, who Helmut cornered in the bathroom one day and pinned against the wall with a hand around his throat. Matthew, who has been _warned_ —under threat of having each and every one of his long, delicate fingers dislocated—to leave Steven be.

Matthew, who now has an arm slung around Steven’s shoulders as if… as if he has the _right_. And Steven does not pull away, though he doesn’t look completely at ease, either. It is obviously a new state, this casual camaraderie between them. The tension in his best friend’s posture makes Helmut’s blood boil.

_Shrug his arm off this instant, Steven Grant Rogers!_

Matthew says something Helmut cannot hear and Steven’s responding smile is quick and easy. He seems to relax. He replies and Matthew bursts out laughing.

They are… they are acting like friends.

When did this happen? Why was Helmut not informed! Surely Helmut’s warning did not work _so well_ ?! He told Matthew to _stay away_ , not to initiate such...such a blatant encroachment on his friendship territory!

Helmut feels his every muscle growing tense with anger, his face screwing up in a scowl. This will not do, not at all. He marches over to Steven and Matthew, spurred forward by fury, adrenaline, and an emotion he cannot name. He stops, wordlessly, in front of them, glowering.

Steven smiles at him, but Matthew tenses and his arm falls away.

 _“That’s right_ ,” Helmut snarls at the interloper. “ _You_ should not be here.”

“Helmut!” Steven says sharply, looking from Matthew back to Helmut, bewildered. “What’s gotten into you?”

Helmut ignores the pang of regret he feels at Steven’s look of disapproval and instead holds his ground, glaring at the tall, dusky-haired boy.

“I should go,” Matthew mutters quickly, not looking anywhere in particular. Helmut’s jaw clenches. He nods and is pleased by how quickly Matthew bolts. _Good_ . Now _maybe_ he will not have to lie in wait in the boy’s dorm room and snap each and every one of his fingerbones. Regardless, they _will_ have another meeting, if only so Helmut can explain the rules more clearly.

 _‘Leave Steven alone!’_ does not mean ‘ _Cozy up to him as his friend_ ,’ it means ‘ _Do not breathe the same air he breathes,_ _lest you incur the wrath of Helmut J. Zemo, Heir Apparent to the Zemo Barony.’_

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?!” Steven hisses at him, high color staining his pale cheeks.

“What is wrong with _me_?” Helmut demands. “That brute was one of the three that attacked you on my first day at the Keep. Have you forgotten?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I repeat, what is wrong with _you_ ? Why would you let him…” _Touch you_. “What did he say to you anyway?”

“Nothing,” Steven says tightly. “We were talking about our maths assignments. He asked me for help. It was civil.”

“It is _obviously_ a trap! He’ll get you alone and try to hurt you again.”

“I doubt it,” Steven says coolly. “Unless he’s playing a long con, Helmut, and I doubt that. He apologized last week for all his bullying. Tuesday, we met in the library to go over matrices.”

“You’ve met with him _before_?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!”

Steven’s expression sours. “Am I supposed to file a report on every person I interact with, Helmut?” he asks hotly.

_Yes!_

“Of course not, but… But…” Unable to think of an adequate response, he tries a different tack. “Even if you help the idiot with his homework, that does not explain buddying up to him today. You came to watch _my_ time trial and you did not even react when I crossed the finish line! Were you so _distracted_ by Matthew Clyde that you could not recall why you were here?”

“I _saw_ your trial.” Steven’s voice has hardened to ice. “Good job.”

It does not feel good, not with the way Steven twists out the word, a low hiss of congratulations with no emotion, no warmth behind it.

“You should be proud of me. I beat my person record.”

“I said ‘good job,’ Helmut, what more do you want?”

 _For you to keep your eyes on_ me _._

Helmut is drowning in a sea of green.

“Forget it,” Zemo says bitterly, turning on his heels and storming off.

* * *

They scarcely speak to one another for three days, and the pain of their distance drives Helmut to distraction. He knows that he should never have so openly shown his anger. But _he_ is Steven’s protector and Matthew Clyde is a known bully and a brute. Steven, if he _must_ have friends other than Helmut, should have only the worthiest companions.

This morning, he has resolved to make amends, and finds himself bowled over when Steven—as stubborn as he is noble—speaks to him first.

“ _Guten Morgen_ ,” Steven says cautiously and Zemo looks over at him from his place at the desk. For a moment, he does not know what to say.

“... _G_ _uten Morgen_ ,” Zemo replies hesitantly.

Steven takes a deep breath.

“You are arrogant as hell, Helmut,” he says and Zemo narrows his eyes in frustration.

“And you are foolish.”

“You don’t have the right to tell me who I can talk to and I don’t report to you on my friends or my other interactions. Do you understand me?”

Helmut narrows his eyes. He has _never_ allowed anyone to speak to him like this, but Steven…

“I watched that cretin _harm_ you on my first day here! Do you not understand how it makes me feel to see him near you?” He bites down before he says, ‘murderous.’ “I wish only for your safety, Steven.”

His words seem to jar Steven, who blinks at him.

Helmut truly hates apologizing. It doesn’t come easy at the best of times, and the difficulty is only magnified in the face of Steven’s resolve. But he misses his friend so very much.

He opens his mouth, but Steven beats him to it, blurting out, “ _Ich bin Entschuldigung._ ”

For a moment, Helmut just stares at him, his brow furrowing slightly as he tries to process the words through the awful accent. He says as much, so that Steven will not think he’s being ignored and the boy huffs in annoyance.

“I can’t help it if German is all guttural growls and sounds. My mouth doesn’t move that way.” After a moment he repeats, “ _Ich bin Entschuldigung._ ”

“ _Ich verstehe nicht,_ ” Helmut finally admits.

“Uh-uh! Not again, Helmut. We are _not_ doing this again.”

“No, I really do not understand,” Helmut replies earnestly. He will keep trying, however, to understand, because this is the most they’ve said to each other in days and he does not wish to have silence between them for even a moment longer.

“ _Ich bin..._ armselig?”

The phrase is so amusing that Zemo can’t help but burst into gales of laughter. It makes Steven’s cheeks heat and he glowers.

“You _are_ pathetic, but I do not hold it against you, Steven!”

“I’m _not_ pathetic.”

“Then why would you say that you are?” he gently taunts.

“You know, if you had ever once apologized for _anything_ then I might be able to repeat the phrase. You could say you were sorry, too.”

He _is_ sorry. Sorry that he hurt Steven and sorry that he caused him embarrassment. He is not, however, sorry about running off Matthew. He is not sorry that he has since punched the boy hard in the solar plexus, leaving him on the ground, writhing and gasping for air. He is not sorry the boy now knows never to speak to Steven again. This, he will _not_ apologize for.

“ _Es mir…_ ” Steven mutters. “Something. _Es mir_ something. Oh! _Es mir leid tut!_ ” He looks _so proud_ of himself that Zemo can barely control his laughter. “C’mon, _Barönchen_ , you know what I’m trying to say. I know that you do.”

Zemo finally takes mercy on him and says, “ _Es tut mir leid_.” He then motions to Steven, expecting him to repeat it.

Instead, Steven, no longer holding back his own humor, beams and throws an arm around Zemo’s shoulders. “Apology accepted, Helmut.”

* * *

**NOW**

Helmut strolls across the Keep grounds, heading toward the manor house up on the hill. He tilts his head, a smug smile twisting his lips. There is nothing more satisfying than a plan falling perfectly into place. And right now his Masters are quickly, quietly, putting his plans into effect. They are planting evidence of Matthew Clyde’s wrongdoings.

And at the same time… implicating themselves in their own crimes.

Helmut raps hard on the manor door and waits, schooling his features into a mask of concern.

_Quinton, the top student, with high marks in every subject… but always doing dreadfully on his orals. It took very little digging on Helmut’s part to learn the boy was stealing exam keys._

There’s the sound of movement from behind the door.

 _Jacob he found in a very..._ compromising _...position, spying on some of the other boys in the shower. He was most certainly not following the established rules of the locker room._

A light flicks on in the entry hall and the glow spills out through the frosted-glass windows lining the door.

_And then there’s Eric, the upperclassman. How interesting Helmut found the correspondence he plucked from the mailroom. A simple letter home, but filled with whining and doubts about the founding principles of Hydra. Disloyalty that would not be tolerated._

The door opens and Fenhoff stands there, framed by the light, looking affronted by this interruption of his leisure time.

“Mr. Zemo,” he says sternly. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

 _But these are not his Masters’ true crimes. No, those are composed of every insult ever hurled at Steven, every bruise they ever left on his frail body, all the ways they tortured and tormented him before Helmut became his best friend and his protector. These crimes, Helmut will_ never _forgive._

“I apologize, sir,” Helmut says in his most contrite tone. “I just now returned to homeroom to retrieve a book I left behind this afternoon and…” With a theatrical shudder, he makes his voice firm and strong. “I came upon three boys up to mischief. I would have stopped them myself, sir, but--”

“Are they still there?”

“I’m almost certain,” Helmut agrees. “If you hurry, you could catch them.”

_By the time Fenhoff reaches them, they will be finished implicating Matthew, but they have no idea that the evidence of their own crimes resides on their persons—a test key in Quinton’s wallet, a lewd photo of showering students in Jacob’s pocket, and that damning letter shoved deep in Eric’s bag. If the break-in itself does not prove sufficient to get them expelled—or worse—the evidence will be._

The walk back to the dorm is pleasant, the night air cool and sweet. Helmut whistles a tune to himself.

_Tomorrow, when Fenhoff finds the threat from Matthew buried in his desk, conveniently written on the back of a scrap of an essay with the bastard’s name on it, he’ll be gone too._

Then Helmut need never worry that the deceitful shit will...harm...Steven.

Ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to play with the concept of bby Helmut scheming, pulling together his first Masters of ~~Evil~~ Hydra, and being generally a tiny tyrant version of his older self. :)
> 
> **Please, please, please consider leaving comments and kudos! I'm sailing on the itty bitty Hydra!Stemo ship and your feedback gives me life and purpose.**
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 5

**FALL 1936 - THE KEEP**

Helmut is fearless.

For the last year, Steven has used a number of different adjectives to describe his best friend. They change with the seasons. Spring Overconfident, Summer Brash, Fall  _ Reckless _ — but today particularly, he radiates  _ fearlessness _ as he stands at the front of the classroom answering rapid-fire questions from the professor. He keeps his gaze trained over the heads of his fellow students, his hands linked behind his back. His voice does not quaver. His answers are confident and complete. Nothing betrays the fact that this test, should he fail it, could mean expulsion.

Being an agent of Hydra means commitment for life or until death, and the students here are all loyal to the cause.

The questions are painfully easy at times, at others quite complex, but Helmut gives every answer with ease and just a hint of arrogance.

Steven can’t help but admire the boy in this moment.

When the exam is over, the room seems to let out a collectively-held breath and applause breaks out. Helmut smirks, his eyes on Steven. With a rueful shake of his head, Steven smiles back.

Someday soon, without warning, it will be his turn to take the test. A small, competitive edge whispers that he can do better than the Barönchen.

The bar is high.

* * *

Steven spends the afternoon training on the course, performing complete run-throughs at half-speed, taking regular breaks to ease his traitorous breathing. He’s been striving to perfect his form. 

He resents them, a bit, his classmates. This comes so easy to them—they can run, jump, swim, and climb without their lungs seizing up and threatening to suffocate them. But Steven is unafraid, undaunted. He will work harder. He will run the obstacle course until every step is so ingrained in him that he could do the course in his sleep.

Actually, sometimes when he closes his eyes at night, he can feel his feet pounding the hard earth, can feel the barbed wire comb through his short hair as he crawls beneath it, can feel the water cradling his body as he swims onward. He can also feel every mis-step, every second he’s slower than the others.

When he rolls over the last barrier, he finds Helmut sitting on a bench, legs crossed beneath him, a book in his hands. He doesn’t look up when he hears Steven. Instead, he idly flips the page, but Steven has the distinct sense that Helmut is watching him.

It makes Steven’s stomach twist in an odd way that isn’t wholly unpleasant.

It’s become his truth: Helmut will be there. Steven won’t ever have a moment alone, even if he wanted one. He doesn’t know that he does, but he might.

Steven makes another pass through the course, slowing further, gripping each handhold as he climbs the wall, focusing on his form, on planting his feet, on balance and leverage rather than the strength of his meager muscles. At the top of the wall he jumps for the rope to swing across the water, but when he hits the rope, his fingers close just a fraction of a second too slow, and he falls, the rope burning through his fingers, into the pool below, icy water making his whole body seize in a spasm of pain and terror.

He bursts up through the surface of the water, breaking up the rest of the thin layer of ice, and he lets out a shout of joy and agitation— _ He is alive! _ —and takes off running.

This time when he reaches the end of the course, Helmut watches him with ice-blue eyes and a smirk, taking him all in.

“Are you done?” Helmut asks.

Steven takes a moment to catch his breath, his damp clothes sticking to his body. When he can manage words again he gasps out a response, “I’m done.”

“ _ Good _ . Because Harold has issued us a challenge that cannot be allowed to go unmet and I, of course, accepted on our behalf.”

“Of course you did,” Steven says, shivering in the chill breeze. “What dumb thing have you gotten us into?”

“Just a dare. A challenge I am certain we will handle flawlessly.”

“A dare? Seriously?” 

Helmut shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over Steven’s shoulders, unperturbed by the dampness.

“We are supposed to raid Fenhoff’'s liquor cabinet and dump the contents in the lake.”

“That all?” Steven asks. “We can do one better.”

“Oh?” 

“Fenhoff keeps a special bottle of brandy on top of his bookcase.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Helmut says. “Why would he not keep it in the liquor cabinet?”

“Well, you’re short,” Steven reminds him with a cheeky grin, “And...I don’t know. I have a feeling he shares what’s in the cabinet with the other teachers, but this bottle… It would have to be really special for him to keep it all the way up there, right?”

“Indeed.”

“So we steal that one too,” Steven says firmly. “And we show them all.”

* * *

Helmut stands steady as he holds Steven on his shoulders. He may be short, but he’s sturdy.

“Can you reach it?” Helmut whispers as Steven stretches his long arms up to the top of the tall bookshelf in Fenhoff’s office.

“Lift me higher,” he says, and Helmut stands up straight, lifting up on his tiptoes. It’s the first time Helmut wobbles even a little, and for a moment Steven can see it happen. He imagines the pair of them falling into an ungainly pile on the carpeted floor. Steven grabs the bookshelf with his fingertips. He holds just hard enough to keep his balance, but not enough to bring the entire case down on them both. Helmut grunts and steadies himself.

“Hurry it up, Steven.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Steven says and with one final stretch he manages to snatch up the hidden bottle of brandy. “Got it!”

He scrambles down off Helmut’s shoulders, sliding down the hard plane of Helmut’s chest.

Steven flushes. He tells himself it’s just the excitement of their caper. 

* * *

They charge down the hall, breathless from excitement and the effort of stifling their laughter. Steven  _ knew _ they could pull this off, but they aren’t out of the woods yet. Not until the liquor is at the bottom of the lake. They harass each other in frantic whispers. Helmut teases Steven about his asthma, Steven teases Helmut about his height. They are young and  _ alive! _

And then they round the corner and Steven barrels straight into a wall of muscle. It is a man who towers over him. Steven’s knocked to the ground. In a moment of sheer panic, he thinks it’s Fenhoff. But no, it’s not the big-bellied professor. It’s someone much, much different. He stutters out an apology, gazing up in awe at the purple mask and the glinting gold crown. He glances at Helmut, whose mouth has fallen open, but the future Baron’s shock does not hold him back for long.

“Papa!” the boy cries, and flings himself into Baron Heinrich Zemo’s arms. He squeezes the man tightly.

He pulls himself off the floor, and Helmut excitedly introduces his father as the twelfth Baron Zemo and the  _ smartest _ man in the world. He has seen a whole range of Helmut’s smiles, from his wicked grin to his contented half-smile, but he has never seen one like this, the way he beams at his father. It’s endearing, but Steven feels his heart stir with a twinge of jealousy.

What he can remember of his father isn’t…

It isn’t…

 

**1925 - NEW YORK**

It’s gonna happen.

It makes his tummy hurt, ’cause he can smell it coming like he smells rain in the air before a storm. Except Stevie Rogers likes sitting on the fire escape in the rain and watching the little droplets of water bend the tree leaves. He likes a good rain, the way it makes the apartment feel—nice and cool—likes the smell. Likes everything about it.

Stevie is still afraid of storms, though. Huge, loud, ugly black storms with booming thunder that makes him hide under his covers and lightning so bright he can see it even after he closes his eyes. And that’s what the bad thing’s like. It’s like the loudest storm.

And it’s about to happen and this time they ain’t at the apartment where all the bandages are. They’re out in the street and Ma has on her pretty dress and why can’t Pa see that? Why can’t he see how pretty Ma looks?

But his voice is all shaky and mad. And Ma’s back just keeps getting straighter. She’s already tall, but she always stands up taller right before it happens.

Sometimes Stevie wishes she wouldn’t be so tall. Maybe if she just hid with him.

Stevie hides behind the wagon wheel, holding onto the wood so tight his hands hurt. If he was bigger, he thinks, he’d probably break the wood with his bare hands. And he’d be strong enough to stop Pa from doing it. The wagon smells just like cabbages. Stevie loves the smell of cabbages, but right now his tummy hurts.

He wants to call out to Ma and tell her to stop or Pa’s gonna do it, he’s gonna hit her, but his voice is trapped deep in the back of his throat and it can't come out.

Ma is begging and Pa is shouting and Stevie doesn’t understand what they mean because what they’re saying ain’t words, it’s just sounds. Angry noises. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut, wants to put his hands over his ears. But he's gotta be ready, ’cause when Pa stops hitting her, Stevie’ll go running to her side and he’ll give Ma big hugs and hold on to her and he won’t cry. He’ll be a big boy.

Pa hits her. Ma falls. A lady appears like magic and she asks if everything is alright. She’s got a pretty voice. And she’s fancy, too, with a beautiful necklace and gloves and fuzzy bits on her dress. But Pa is so angry that he does something Stevie ain’t never seen him do to anyone but Ma. He tries to hit her!

Stevie moves farther behind the wagon. He’s real scared and they are so loud and he doesn’t want the pretty lady to get knocked down. But then she surprises him because she fast and strong. Stronger than any lady Stevie’s ever seen and she makes his pa go flying through the air. He lands hard in the mud, sending bits of it splattering everywhere.

Stevie’s mouth falls open.

There’s lights coming on in the buildings around them and ladies in curlers and men without their jackets are looking out at Pa in the mud. There’s lots of talk and some people are laughing. He tries to pull himself out of the mud, but he slips and falls back.

And Stevie hopes he'll staty down in the mud forever.

 

**NOW**

“Steven?” Helmut asks and Steven blinks himself back to the present, away from that night and Sarah Rogers’ bruised and bleeding face. He hasn’t thought about that in a lifetime. He swallows hard. “Steven, your head is in the clouds!”

Steven looks around the hall and realizes that they're alone.

“Your father…?”

“Has important business to attend to,” Helmut says with lofty pride. He puffs out his chest as he speaks, obviously idolizing his father. “He can not stand around all day as you daydream.  _ And neither can we _ . We must complete the dare and dump the evidence! Come!”

Steven doesn’t even admonish Helmut for treating him like a dog, simply shakes off the feeling of ill-ease and follows.

* * *

The brandy has made Steven feel heavy and sloppy and happy. He sits in the floor and leans back against his bunk, letting his head fall against the mattress.

To complete the dare, they’d thrown all the liquor from Fenhoff’s cabinet into the lake...but the dare said nothing about the extra special bottle they’d taken. Helmut decided there was only  _ one way _ to destroy that particular piece of evidence.

“This was a good idea,” he says. “You are the Barönchen of Good Ideas.  _ Barönchen der Guten Ideen _ .”

“ _ Danke! _ ” Helmut lets out a distinctly unbaron-like snorted giggle. Out of the corner of his eye, Steven can see Helmut’s profile. His chubby cheeks are a brilliant shade of amaranth. Steven think it’s cute and he pokes at Helmut’s face as his friend lifts the bottle to his lips and throws back another gulp.

“Now I’ll have to take another drink,” he accuses as Steven’s hand falls away.

“How’s that?”

“Because if anyone pokes your cheek while you’re drinking, you get another drink. Automatically.”

“Is that the rule?”

“You do not drink enough, Steven!” Helmut says.

Steven, in a moment of pure insight, grabs hold of Helmut’s hand and yanks so that his finger pokes Steven’s face. “There! Now gimmee.”

He steals the quickly draining bottle and drinks. His burp cuts through the room and both boys look at each other before bursting into gales of laughter.

“Shhh... _ shhh! _ ” Steven hushes in a voice too loud. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.” Some of his old Brooklyn accent slips out.

“If anyone gets us into anything it’s going to be  _ you _ , Steven Rogers.”

“Says the one who got us into... _ this _ .”

“I did  _ not _ !” Helmut says stubbornly, his dark brows coming together in a scowl. “ _ I would never _ .”

“You DID.  _ Barönchen der guten Ideen _ , remember??”

“Ah! That’s right!” Helmut admits, his eyes widening as he remembers, and they laugh together so hard that tears stream down Steven’s cheeks. He grapples for the future Baron Zemo and throws his arm around his shoulder.

“I’m glad can you admit it.”

“I  _ do  _ have good ideas,” Helmut says proudly.

“You do.”

“I  _ do _ .”

“I know, I already said that.”

“It’s worth repeating,” Helmut says, snuggling into Steven’s side. “You are warm.”

“Hell you’re  _ cold _ . Stop stealing my warmth!”

“No. I am the future Baron of Zeulniz and all warmth belongs to me.”

“This is not Zeulniz.”

“It is  _ my room _ and as such, I declare it Zeulniz by extension. And since I am future baron…”

“All warmth belongs to you?”

As if to prove his point, Helmut puts his  _ freezing cold hands _ up under Steven’s nightshirt. It has the dual-effect of making his stomach jerk violently and sobering him just enough to realize that Helmut is draped across him.

Now Steven’s face burns for an entirely different reason and he turns away from his friend.

“See, this warmth is mine.”

Steven doesn’t trust his voice, doesn’t trust himself to respond. He should shove Helmut away and they could laugh together about it. Instead, he swallows and lets Helmut gently pet his belly. 

Helmut’s fingers burn against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read _Captain America: Steve Rogers_ then you know that the same night Heinrich arrives, the two boys go on their little spying adventure. I adjusted canon a bit here, just so I could squeeze in these drunken shenanigans. Spying will occur after sobering commences. ;)
> 
> Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! (As well as giving her life purpose.)


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